


He Kisses Charles

by sasha_b



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-23
Updated: 2011-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-22 23:33:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles worries; Erik distracts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Kisses Charles

Erik is calm.

Charles is not. He breathes heavily, twitches, shuffles his feet and shifts back and forth in his seat. He picks up a pawn, puts it down. Narrows his eyes, touches his temple, runs a hand through his hair.

The clock ticks and he sighs, his face pinched in thought as he stares at the board, and finally Erik raises an imperial eyebrow and sits back in his chair. He crosses his legs and rests his chin in his hand. Their argument – or rather the few moments where Charles tried to convince him that the things he’d thought were wrong (Erik finds himself oddly considering Charles’ comments, but he’s not willing to go there right this second) – is done. He won’t (can’t) forget the _killing Shaw will not bring you peace_ but that moment is past and he’s more interested in figuring out why Charles is twitching. That is definitely not a normal Charles reaction – he almost wants to laugh, but if he does, he shudders to think of the long, drawn out diatribe that would bring.

If Erik has discovered anything about Charles – and himself – it’s that while he may _react_ to things, Charles only _acts_. This futzing about is disturbing.

Erik knows his goal. The question of Charles’ anxiety is one he doesn’t readily know the answer to, and that is unpleasant. He meets Charles’ agitated gaze and focuses on the blue irises as the other man shoots a breath out of his nose and scrubs hands through his thick hair (again). The clock ticks and finally Erik can’t stand the _shuffling about_ and tilts his head, annoyed. “What is it?”

Charles jerks his gaze to Erik, long fingers lifting a pawn halfway off the board, and twists his full, red lips. “What do you mean?”

Erik rolls his eyes, unable to restrain from the pedantic gesture. “Why are you so … ” he waves a hand at Charles, and mimes the moving about. Charles’ brows draw together and he clears his throat. “I’m merely trying to let off steam,” he answers blandly, and its Erik’s turn to snort (how long has he known this man? All of four weeks?).

He watches as Charles drains the rest of his brandy glass, sitting it down with a bang next to the decanter. The _goal_ and the drive and Shaw and the submarine pounds at the back of Erik’s skull even as Charles’ thoughts leak to him, creating a mishmash of chaos that brings a headache, tightly squeezing his temples. Annoyance flares, but he rubs the bridge of his nose as Charles wavers with the Chess piece.

“Charles,” he growls after a moment.

A breath explodes from the other man as he rises and begins to pace. “I am not one for nervous prattle,” Charles spouts, Erik’s eyebrows moving upward again at the suddenness of the words. “But for the love of God, this is important!”

“…which part?”

Erik leans forward, elbows on knees, irritated, yes, but this is _Charles_ after all, and he’s –

“All of it. The children, the war, the – everything, Erik.” He flaps his arms and flops into his seat, legs inelegantly sprawled wide. His shirt is halfway unbuttoned and his ever present cardigan is hanging strangely (it’s fastened wrong; Erik wants to smirk at that) and he’s red in the face. “How on earth do you process everything? What does one do to prepare for something like this?”

His voice has dropped to a mere whisper; Erik cocks his head, his right hand shoving his lank hair out of his eyes (it slides forward often, which drives him mad). He breathes deeply and shuts his eyes for a fraction of a second, the sound of Charles’ oddly appearing panic –

 _what do I do? What if I get them killed? What if I lose him too?_

Erik opens his eyes, the blue bright and _did he just_ he clears his throat and stands and then moves closer to where Charles is sat, worrying and biting his lip and Erik speaks, the only thing he can think of.

“Well, sex always works.”

His gaze locks with Charles’; the other man looks up at him, wide wide eyes, lashes trembling with the sound of his harsh fretful breathing, his cheeks flushed and Erik wonders how warm they are to the touch.

He lifts his right hand (the left one belongs to the power, mostly) and brushes fingers over the hot skin next to Charles’ nose. He waits (an agony if he really thinks about it) and doesn’t over analyze what he’s just said. Erik doesn’t do anything without a reason or – he clears his throat again and goes to his knees in front of Charles, who is watching him with hooded eyes now, the blue shuttered, hidden from Erik’s sight.

“Don’t joke.”

“I’m not.”

Charles is suddenly in Erik’s space and his mouth – that mouth, that red red mouth and his hands on either side of Erik’s head – the mouth, snatching at his, hot, wet, _Charles God damn it_ and Erik wrestles them both to the floor, quick violence in his actions, want and desire and he wonders if this is for Charles or

They’re both undressed in moments and the lights in the study go out with a snap (Erik’s power is convenient if nothing else), the door locking with a gesture and they make no sound except a few grunts and one _ow_ when Charles hits the back of the coffee table with his head.

Erik’s turtleneck is bunched up under his arm and he rolls over, his back to Charles as he jerks it away. He freezes when he feels Charles’ hands on his back, the scars there broad and shiny and easy to see even in the dark. He doesn’t move; letting the other man see what he’s hidden under the clothing for most of his life.

“Erik.”

The softness of his name spoken by Charles is a burn to him; he shudders briefly and turns back to face the other man. “This isn’t about me,” he responds, words floating quietly away as quickly as he speaks them. He’s not afraid of the scars or how they got there, but now isn’t the time and no matter what – he will do what he has to tomorrow in order to make sure the damage to his skin isn’t something he thinks about anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Charles whispers, and Erik’s lips capture his to take away the kindness.

Neither man is inexperienced but they don’t know _each other_ and Erik finds he wants to be the only one who does know Charles in this manner, especially when he’s buried in the other man and Charles is gasping and moaning and sweating as his hands clutch at Erik’s biceps and his face is flushed (still) but not for the reason it was earlier.

All Erik can hear from Charles now is _yes yes yes yes yes yes_ ; none of the worry or fear is there anymore and Charles throws his head back and Erik feels the slick warmth on his stomach and he comes with a rush of feeling and his forehead drops to Charles’ chest and his muscles spasm and heave as his hips slow to a stop after a few moments of uncontrollable jerking. The sweat that coats Charles’ skin is hot and salty and Erik presses a small kiss to the beat of the other man’s heart; a tiny, brushing, bruising kiss that is the only concession to (love) sweetness he’ll give. This isn’t about love, it’s about distraction and the pleasure of flesh on flesh and he can’t meet Charles’ eyes when the other man calls out his name again, softly, the sound mixed with the languid thoughts that spiral lazily from Charles’ satiated brain. Erik shivers again, the things Charles are thinking not words but mere (love) feelings and he can’t abide it.

“I think you’re right.” Charles’ voice is as slow as his thoughts.

“Hmmm?” He still won’t look at the screaming blue.

“Sex does work.”

A tight smile. “So does booze, but we’d had enough of that.”

A small laugh burbles out of Charles; his body vibrates with it, and Erik turns his head, laying his cheek on the other man’s chest, feeling the myriad of sounds from within, absorbing them, remembering, memorizing.

Not about love. Not about passion or kindness. It’s about want and desire and Erik can’t lie to himself for too much longer before he begins to have to lie to Charles.

The wind seeps in through the cracked window; the gauzy curtains blow and finally he raises his head, his body slowly softening inside of Charles’, and he allows a cursory glance at the eyes that have claimed him no matter what he says to himself.

“This is about whatever you want it to be about, Erik.”

He closes his eyes and sighs a breath out his nose. “Don’t do that, Charles.” He lifts himself with his arms and pulls out of the other man’s body, both of them making uncontrollable sounds. Erik sits and crosses his legs, sweat drying slowly, his hair standing at strange angles, his knees bruised and various body fluids cooling on his stomach. He would laugh at the absurdity, but –

“I can hear you whether you mean it or not,” Charles says, point blank, a bullet to the skull that hurts more than Erik though it would, no matter the multiple times Charles has told him _I know everything about you._

“Let’s pretend you can’t.”

No answer, save the ticking of the clock and the sound of one last chess piece falling as Charles sits up, jostling the table. He wraps arms around his knees and regards Erik with a kind of calm brevity that infuriates so easily – but Erik just shakes his head slightly and leans forward, hand cupping the back of Charles skull, lips stopping inches from Charles’.

“Pretend you don’t.”

He kisses Charles and for right now he realizes the distraction he’d wanted for the worry the other man was feeling was a lie, another lie on top of lies. This distraction was for _him_ after all, and he feels the hatred blossom in his gut and the rage rage rage and anger for his own failing to remember what’s most important in his life.

The goal.

But –

“Erik.”

A breeze, the scent of spilled brandy, the warmth of the burned down fire, the smell of sweat and Charles and Erik shuts his eyes and kisses the other man again and the worry, the angst and drama and thoughts of the children and what tomorrow will bring (Shaw, the submarine, can he do it?) are pushed away with a force that brings a smile to Charles face.

Erik finds he doesn’t like that smile.


End file.
